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Editorial Reviews

At an audition no less. Me, the ultimate professional. In front of several peers and a table of entertainment and marketing executives.

Bad enough I even had to audition.

I'd performed in this casino on a number of occasions throughout the years as a singer, an emcee, a dance motivator and a character actress. Not just this casino, but every casino in Atlantic City. I was known as the poor man's Tracy Ullman. I had versatility out the wazoo. A stellar reputation. A kickbutt résumé. I had more experience in entertainment than any one of the six stony-faced executives who'd insisted upon this live demonstration.

I also had sequined bras older than any of the people deciding my fate.

It wasn't their youth I resented. Okay. That's a lie. It was their inability to afford the performer their respect and attention. In between memorizing the script that I'd been handed on arrival and checking for the umpteenth time to make sure my blush and lipstick hadn't faded, I peeked out from the wings to gauge the reaction of the powers-thatbe to the actress on deck. I watched those suits yawn, mumble and fidget through five seamless auditions. The only time they showed interest was during a giggly, stilted presentation from a bigbreasted twentysomething-year-old. Granted, Britney was young, stacked and beautiful, but she was as green as the bagel I'd found this morning in the back of my fridge.

I traded a disgusted, knowing look with two friends who were also auditioning for this gig, both in their late thirties. Talented, experienced and equally ignored by the Gen-X execs. Nicole and Jayne were already slipping into day clothes and trading their heels for flats.

I should have cut my losses then and there and followed suit. I should have collected my purple fake fur coat and I Love Lucy travel tote and vacated the showroom in a dignified manner. But no. I was stubborn, desperate and, dammit, hopeful. Hopeful that they'd see something in me that they didn't see in my friends. Hopeful that talent and experience would win out.

Talk about idealistic.

When my time came I strode onstage with confidence and grace wearing a turquoise bikini top, flowered sarong, three-inch heels and a dazzling smile. I hit my mark and launched into the poorly written promotion intended to wow casino patrons. Me, Evie Parish, a mild-mannered, small-breasted, fortysomething.

Normally I excel when reciting monologues and pitches. I can sell camp like Liza Minelli. Unfortunately, I was distracted by an overly loud conversation from the vicinity of the "judges" panel. I stopped midsentence. Did I mention that instead of reading off of the page like Britney, I'd memorized the copy? But I digress. No one instructed me to continue, so I didn't. Instead, I shielded my eyes from the bright wash of the spotlight in order to pinpoint the commotion.

I'd endured a lot of humiliation in my twentyfive year careerincluding a crotchety patron yelling, "You suck!" three inches from my face while I was performingbut this took the cake. Instead of watching me, the executives were scanning a menu, arguing over what to order for lunch. Three of them, anyway. Another yapped on his cell phone, while the remaining two studied me with bored expressions.

For crying out loud!

Seething, I tugged at the hem of my midthigh sarong. Michael, my agent, who also happens to be my ex-husbanddon't askhad told me the theme was tropical. Show some skin, he'd said. Then again he always says that.

"Should I wait?" I asked. "Start over? Pick up where I left off?" Go tell it on the mountain? "Are you wearing bikini bottoms under that skirt?" This from the bored, clean-shaven man who looked young enough to be my!younger brother.

Certain I knew where this was leading, I shifted on my strappy heels and cocked a recently waxed, perfectly shaped eyebrow. "Yes."

"Would you mind losing the sarong?" This from the bored woman sitting next to him. At least she knew it was a sarong.

My heart pounded with fury. The last several months, months of being rejected solely on my advancing age, weighed on my shoulders like an unlucky slot machine. "Yes, I mind."

I heard a collective gasp from the wings. I knew without looking that Nicole and Jayne stood side by side, shocked by my defiance. I didn't cause scenes. I was the calm one, the logical one, the one who sucked it up and took the high road no matter how low the blow.

Up until now, that is.

Now this final injustice compelled me to raise a verbal sword in defense of belittled entertainers everywhere!

I stepped out of the spotlight, allowed my eyes to adjust to the low-lighted house and gave thanks that this was a closed audition. No casino patrons to witness this humiliating debacle. No bartenders, cocktail waitresses, dealers or slot attendants to instigate gossip. Just the six executives and two stage technicians. Oh, and seven performers, including my two closest friends. I glanced toward the left wing and sure enough, Nicole, the rabble-rouser of our clique, was giving me a thumbs-up while Jayne's horrified expression shouted, Are you mad?

"Mad as hell," I thought, my inner voice mimicking the deranged anchorman from Network, "and I'm not going to take it anymore!"

In that same instant, the woman who'd asked me to remove my sarong said, "Thank you for your time, Mrs. Parish."

Since a gigantic vaudevillian hook didn't emerge from the sidelines to yank me off stage, I stood my ground. Hands trembling, I tucked my processed blond hair behind my ears and faced the enemy. "Look, I'm auditioning for the role of an emcee, not a beach bunny." Amazingly, my tone did not betray my inner frustration. Then again, I am a damn good actress. Too bad I seemed to be the only one aware of that.

The entertainment coordinatorwas she even twenty?crossed her arms over her chest and angled her head. She didn't look happy. "As an emcee you'd be representing this property, Mrs. Parish."

She might as well have called me ma'am. I curled my French-manicured nails into my sweaty palms. "It's Ms. Parish and I realize that, but"

"What does specialty performer mean?" This from one of the marketing dudes.

My left eye twitched. I tried to wet my lips, but anxiety had robbed me of saliva. I clasped my trembling hands and twirled my funky chrysoprase ringa gift from Jaynearound my middle finger. She claimed that the mint-green stone would ease emotional tension and stress. I'm beginning to think she bought me a clunker. Even though I knew full well that, for the sake of my untainted reputation, I should swallow my anger, sarcasm tripped off of my fat, bone-dry tongue. "Excuse me?"

They snickered, turned to one another and traded unfunny quips like the local news reporters at the end of a broadcast. What's up with that? Laughing heartily over something that wasn't clever or funny to begin with.

As I stood there, white noise roaring in my ears, I flashed back on all of the times Iand a slew of other entertainershad lost a gig because of an unenlightened directive from a higher-up bean counter. A person with no background whatsoever in entertainment. A person who hired and fired acts based on personal taste.

I know amazing female singers who've been passed over because a casino president deemed their hips too big. One even cited a vocalist's ankles too thick. Can you imagine? Never mind that she sang her butt off. Did you even notice that the audience, your patrons, were thoroughly enjoying themselves, Mr. President? If the ankles bothered you that badly,what about suggesting she wear pants instead of a dress? Wouldn't that be a simple, creative solution? But wait, you're not creative. You're not a visionary. And neither, I concluded sadly, were the execs seated in front of me.

Heart pumping, I hopped off the stage and approached the long table, demanding everyone's attention with a shrill whistle. Career suicide, my logical self warned. Only I wasn't listening to my logical self. I was listening to the injured woman who'd endured a particularly rough year, personally and professionally. There comes a time when a person needs to speak up, to demand common courtesy, respect, no matter the cost, and for me that time was now. Why I hadn't felt this righteous urge when Michael had dumped me for another woman, I couldn't say. Maybe I'd been too stunned, too hurt to speak up. But now I was angry. Angry and insulted and really, really pissed.

I climbed up on my soapbox. If this were a TV sitcom, patriotic music would swell in the background.

"Listen up, kids. On behalf of all the other women who auditioned today, we are professionals and expect to be treated as such. Secondly, although the harem girl and French maid costumes stored in my closet might be considered exotic and although I do dance, I am not, nor have I ever been, an exotic dancer. Those costumes, by the way, hang right alongside my fuzzy bumblebee fat-suit and mad scientist lab coat. It's all part and parcel of being a character actress. Translationan actress with excellent improvisational skills who can represent any given character on any given day at any given private or corporate themed party. And that's just one of my God-given talents. I also sing and dance. Hence the term specialty performer."

"Thank you, Ms. Parish. We'll be in touch." That was it? That was the payoff to my heartfelt tirade? An expressionless don't-call-us-we'll-callyou?

I nodded. "Got it."

Actually, I hadn't. It was the second time I'd been dismissed and yet there I stood, trembling with fury!and fear. Life as I'd known it was fast swirling...

Top customer reviews

Once in a while, you buy a "pig in the poke," so to speak, not knowing the author or how you will like the book and you get lucky. This was one of those times for me. I absolutely loved this book. It was funny, exciting, suspenseful, romantic - everything you could want in a book of this genre. I just hope we get to follow Evie as she flies to London. Surely there will be, not only romance, but some excitement for her there too - Westminster Abbey, Big Ben, the changing of the guard, the Queen and her family, not to mention the Beatles, Sir Elton, William S. and on and on - and she will get to thumb her nose at her cheating ex-husband while he prepares for fatherhood and she's showing how much life she really has. Please don't let this be the last we read of Evie.

Evie is a lounge singer who is pushing forty -- that's over the hill in lounge-singer-world. But just like all the sit-com heroines we grew up with, Evie's got spunk! And in the case of All About Evie, she's got enough spunk to take on Atlantic City, her ex-husband (and agent), an undercover agent, his associates, and a cruise ship full of suspects and potential victims!

I really did enjoy this book. It's a fun page-turner. However, for me, it's also a page-skipper, in view of the over-abundance of over-the-top sex scenes that truly seemed gratuitous. I could almost imagine an editor somewhere covering the manuscript with post-it notes saying "add sex scene here." After a while, it's not sexy. It's just redundant.

However, All About Evie has a lot going for it, and I would absolutely recommend it to a friend as a fun read.

HQN books and me usually are not a good match. I don't know if it's a cultural thingie--them being Canadian--me being Venutian--or what. Usually I don't purchase their books for the reason that the books tend to leave me either squirmy with embarassment or vaguely unsatisfied with the quality of writing. This one is a combination of both. The storyline is original but takes a LOOOOONG time to get started. Who the good guys and the bad guys are is unnecessarily confusing. The lead female is supposed to be "wacky" but mostly her behavior is embarassing, immature and not very funny. Nothing wrong with having conflicted feelings about engaging in romance with a working partner, but if I have to listen to your thoughts about the man and potential relationship--try not to sound like a total fool. Wait for the used book store on this one unless you're really desperate.

Fortyish actress Evie Parish knows she is at the breaking point of her career as she is getting fewer parts since most casting directors prefer younger women. Adding to her feeling that she is getting old is being dumped by her now former husband for a younger female.

Evie is desperate as even the few parts she was offered seem to have dried up. Knowing how low she has gone, Evie accepts a job she would not have considered just a couple of years ago. On a cruise ship, she is to assist novelist Arch Reese by pretending to be Sugar Dupont, a former ditzy Vegas showgirl who he just married. The objective is to con a con artist. However, neither the writer nor the actress expected that their performance would be real.

ALL ABOUT EVIE is a terrific contemporary romance starring two interesting protagonists. Readers will cherish the "discussions" between the actress and the author as their exchanges are humorous and often filled with double entendres whether they are themselves of in character. Beth Ciotta provides an amusing romantic suspense with the emphasis on a sea cruise romance that will continue if Evie has her way long after the ship docks.

The word I would use to describe Beth Ciotta's books is "charming." They're light bits of entertaining froth that entice the reader to go along with the often madcap antics. Like all really good screwball comedies, credulity is sometimes strained but never broken as the reader is invited along on the roller coaster ride.

Evie Parish has made a career working as an entertainer in the casinos of Atlantic City. Onstage, she's bright, perky and bubbly, but she's also pushing forty, which makes her over the hill as far as the casino bosses are concerned. After an...unfortunate audition, Evie's convinced her career in Atlantic City is over, which is why she jumps at a job her agent offers without bothering to check the details, except for the fact it's on a cruise ship.

Arch Reece is one of the details. Part of an agency on the trail of con artists, Arch is going undercover as "Charles Dupont" and needs an actress to play his bride, ditzy former Vegas singer Sugar Dupont. Taking on a civillian as his partner, especially one that doesn't know the full score, is a dangerous thing. The two of them form a sizzling combination as they combat growing feelings for one another as they track their mark.

Arch is suitably charming, brusque and Alpha male-ish without tumbling over the line into jerkhood (though there is clearly some jerkish behavior in his past). Evie is not as bubbly as her onstage persona, struggling to make a new life post-divorce and dealing with the fact that not matter how vibrant an image she presents, she's still too old for her chosen profession. There were some moments when I wondered if Evie's worrying about her age would get a little old, but it's part of her journey and she emerges from the other end the stronger for it. Nor is everything solved by the end of the book; this is the first volume of The Chameleon Chronicles and I think it's definitely going to be worth coming along for the ride.